ISSUE: Summer 2010
Do you care to know
their names—Malcolm,
Martin, Medgar?
Your dress,
little woman, is the flag
that promises you
its stars, but leaves
you with nothing.
Someone says their names.
You imagine the bullets
tearing into them,
you imagine that this
is how black men
must live, in chains,
waiting for the bullet.
Malcolm, Martin, Medgar.